


We Are Ghosts Amongst These Hills

by NoraViolette



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, I'm sorry if my writing is shitty, This will eventually branch out into other characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-20
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-16 09:16:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1341733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoraViolette/pseuds/NoraViolette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia can't hear a thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So basically this deals with Lydia post-Allison's death. She is looking for Allison in the whispering she hears. There's some Stydia dribbled throughout and major at the end. Sorry if it's soppy, I had a lot of feels. This is my first foray into fan fiction so please let me know how I'm going! Thanks!

Lydia Martin floated down the halls of Beacon Hills High. A thousand sounds breathed and collapsed in the space around her. There were chattering freshman, lockers slamming, exhales of joy/surprise/frustration/stress, the click of her heels (and then the clack). But she didn’t hear any of it. She hadn’t heard anything on this plane in months. Noises slid off her ears like raindrops on a leaf. Lydia Martin was listening to something else.

  
( _she’s going to die-10 minutes left- where are you- does anyone know- where are we-help-no time_ )

  
The cadence of each anguished voice registered in her mind. She filed them away cautiously, putting each into the tonal categories she had developed (too high, too low, not brave enough). None were the voice she was searching for. Lydia was looking for a voice that fit a wide grin and sparkling eyes. A voice that signalled protection, safety and secrets at 2am. Her eyes looked unseeingly as the people around her blurred into a mass of faces. Only a few stood out sharply. Isaac, Danny, Scott (the empty space next to Scott). She sighed upon reaching her class. Day one hundred and forty seven- Lydia was still calling for her at the edge of the void. Allison was still nowhere to be found.  
\--  
Lydia Martin sat rigidly in the Argent’s apartment. She wasn’t thinking about the over flow of dishes visible in the kitchen, the empty chair next to her, nor the room behind her back (untouched, uncleaned, the ghost of Allison lingering on the sheets). Chris Argent picked up the 17th gun that afternoon. _Now with this one_ , he began, _you’ll want to get up real nice and close_. She didn’t hear the words, but the meaning behind them sunk into her eyes (this will kill). Lydia nodded and fixed her eyes on the complicated death machine. She’d been attending Chris’ so-called self-defence classes in lieu of her regular extra-curricular activities for two months now. It was more for his benefit than for anyone else’s. He needed to feel useful, to feel like he was protecting someone and Weapons 101 was the easiest place to start. Chris whacked the magazine into place and Lydia winced at the echoes.

  
( _pain-suffering-please don’t- no-death-death-death_ )

  
She had learned early on that Allison’s voice wasn’t here; there was nothing but painful cries in the tools of the Argent family. Yet the more she used her abilities the less she was able to control what she heard and when. An image of Meredith wasting away in Eichen House flashed across her mind. She quickly buried it under a cavalcade of how to properly utilise a butterfly knife, storing the movements away in a draw marked ‘emergency only’ in the recess of her mind. She was not crazy. She was not the walking image of death incarnate. Her nails were too bright pink for that.

  
An hour later Lydia headed out the door. Chris gently brushed her shoulder and attempted what she was sure he assumed was a smile. _No Scott again today?_ The words glanced off her as she struggled to grasp the soundwave of each muffled word. She shook her head and shrugged nonchalantly. Scott had disappeared from these sessions two weeks ago. The strawberry blonde still hadn’t mustered the courage to tell Chris why. For the last 8 weeks he had spoken for approximately 16 hours and 43 minutes. All Scott and Lydia had ever heard was a loop.

  
_I told her to wait,_   
_I wasn’t there,_   
_I told her to wait._

  
\--  
Lydia Martin took her regular place in the back of Deaton’s surgery. Pack meetings were relatively calm these days. They had nothing to do but track the hunter who had shot the twins, and leads were tight. Scott stood at the head of the bench, giving what she assumed was the usual drabble about laying low and full moon updates. Derek and Deaton flanked Scott on either side. It would have been a far more impressive stance had they been addressing more than a deaf banshee and a pale wolf.  
Her green eyes glazed over as she stared at a small hole in the back wall. When she’d come to Deaton looking for a way to bring her best friend back, her reaction to his refusal had been less than stellar. A quiet rage exploded under her skin and swallowed her whole. It had taken her 3 weeks to give up on convincing the emissary to find a way. The rage had hardened into a shell that blocked her off from a world that wasn’t built on whispers of voices past. At first she’d embraced the almost silence. Lydia Martin heard the dead. Allison was dead missing. So Lydia would find her voice and pull her back.

  
_…he’ll be back tomorrow…_

Something Scott said brushed against her skin and brought her reeling back into the present. Her eyes snapped up to meet his, but he had already moved on by the time she was able to collate herself enough to almost listen. Isaac moved to stand beside her and she settled herself into his side instead. She peeked a tiny glance up at the sallow face Isaac wore permanently. There was a camaraderie there that hadn’t existed before. They’d both been thrust into the dark uncertainty one too many times. They must have looked quite the pair, hands bleeding from desperately clinging to the shattered remains of their lives.  
She could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat through her arm where they leaned against each other. It stirred the tiniest amount of jealousy in her bones before she gave in to the overwhelming comfort of his warmth. In the back of her mind she pondered what it felt like to have a working heart anymore. She knew rationally that her heart still worked. When she was younger and whole, she would stand in front of the mirror and smile. _My name is Lydia Martin. I am 14 years old. I have strawberry blonde hair and green eyes. My heart beats 84 times per minute on average. I love Jackson Whittmore. One day, I will win the Fields’s Medal…_

  
_\--_

  
Lydia Martin climbed the stairs to her room in silence. She carefully removed her makeup and pulled on her pyjamas. She didn’t look at the drawing on her night stand with a note tacked to the back. She didn’t see the photos of Allison and a girl that looked like her but couldn’t be stuck to her walls. There was no room in her brain for the clothes stuffed in the back of her closet (One medium hooded jumper, red. One military style jacket with large collars, green). Wrapped in her blankets, Lydia left the world of the waking and dreamed of blades and guns and a pair of brown eyes(she’d left him, she’d left him, she couldn’t bear it).

\--

  
Lydia Martin woke up with the taste of panic on her tongue. Her fingers clenched automatically, searching for something. The first night she’d not been able to leave. She’d cried and cried while he slept as if the tear stain on his shirt could paint a picture of the horrors inside. She hadn’t been back since, not once during his recovery. Like every other morning, the emptiness crept in early. Her ears began to ring.

  
( _all alone-why oh why-eichen-screams-no_ )

  
\--

  
Lydia Martin stared blankly at the inside of her locker. Calculus started in twenty minutes and having already done the work for the semester it would give her time to search properly. She found she could extend her range when she focused entirely. It was like casting out a large net, each voice trapped and heard and encased away in her brain. If she closed her eyes, she could almost see each screaming soul, feel them against her like tiny pin pricks tracing the entirety of her skin. Teachers and classmates had long given up trying to rouse her from her sedentary state in class (Coach had been the last, he’d screamed and shouted while she’d boarded up her insides and nailed her ears shut to anything that wasn’t on this plane). The search gave her purpose, gave her hope. Filling the moments in between was the hardest part. She glanced around for Isaac, or even Scott. As her eyes swept the crowded hallway, she felt a punch to the chest.

  
A thudding, loud and clear began to ring through her ears, like a drum being beat for the first time in a decade. It was calling, calling her to something. Lydia took several deep breaths, trying to move her head but her eyes were trained on something she couldn’t quite make out. Since no one in her peripheral vision had startled, she knew the drumming was just for her alone. Her eyes only began to focus when she realised what she was staring at.

  
A boy (that boy).  
\--  
Lydia Martin had sprinted to her car as fast as her heels would carry her. She raced home and flew up the stairs to the safety of her bedroom. Standing amongst her material things brought her crashing back down to earth, and she could finally locate the drumming. Her shaking hand reached up and sat palm down on her chest.

  
Boom.  
Crash.  
Heartbeat.

  
She laughed. She cackled and chortled and wept and sobbed and screamed. Her name was Lydia Martin. She was 16 years old. She had strawberry blonde hair and green eyes. Her heart was beating at 110 beats per minute. He best friend was gone. She had jumped into the void and left Lydia with nothing but silence as she fell down down down.

  
\--

  
Lydia Martin felt alive.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles' perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh yeah I don't even know what I'm doing. I wasn't going to do Stiles and Malia but then I thought it would be interesting and after last nights episode it sort of seemed to be where it was heading. Next time I'll deal with how Lydia feels about all this. Ugh it's all so angsty!

Stiles Stilinski lay in his bed on a Monday morning at 6:37am. He tried to will his legs to the edge of the bed but they seemed to be sewn into the mattress. The gentle thud his head had made hitting the pillow last night still slightly rang in his ears. Sleep these days was long and dreamless. Sleep these days felt like death.

 

\--

 

Stiles Stilinski slowly made his way down the halls of Beacon Hills High for the first time in a few months. He tried to ignore the stares and whispers, but each felt like a coat of paint on his tongue and by the time he reached his locker his throat was so dry he was choking on sand. Before he could be completely pulled under, his eyes locked with a pair he’d only seen in his memory.

Emeralds.

She stood staring back at him. He’d sworn to himself he no longer ached for her (there’s someone new, focus on the new, move forward he told himself). His heart kicked into full speed. Lydia Martin was more beautiful that he’d ever imagined. The image of her fell around him like soft piano chords. It all shattered a moment later when without warning, she turned and ran. He couldn’t blame her. He’d run from himself if he could.

 

\--

 

Stiles Stilinski sprawled awkwardly on Scott’s bed. He looked on idly as Scott taught Malia how to bring out her claws. He couldn’t help the tug of his heart strings at the joy on her face when the yellow talons finally protruded from the ends of her hands. She’d been to visit him a lot over his recovery and they’d grown close. How close exactly he couldn’t tell. He’d kept her at arm’s length for many reasons. His recovery, her situation ( _Lydia Lydia Lydia_ ). Yet still, hours after she’d gone he’d sense her presence lingering like sun on his skin. Sometimes they played video games and sometimes he helped her catch up on her schooling. They were always smiling.

It wasn’t like her smile. Lydia trailed herself through his mind, woven in to very fabric of his being. But when Lydia had smiled at him she’d stopped herself halfway through. Nothing was more heartbreaking than seeing her mind tick and click and decide not him. So one day when Malia smiled, unbound and joyful, he allowed himself a simple moment of enjoyment. He smiled back, and he liked it. It was addictive. One person in his life who didn’t still feel the chilling ghost of the Nogitsune. Who didn’t see a sword ripping Allison Argent from the world when they watched this pale boy put his life back together.

 

\--

 

Stiles Stilinski nervously wrung his hands while his mind processed where to put them. Malia’s lips had sprung onto his during a particularly boring session of catch-up the third grader the next day. He hadn’t been able to rouse himself to school two days in a row and Malia wasn’t exactly keen on the place anyway. Slapping himself back into the present, he tried to concentrate on the girl in front of him. It felt right he guessed. It felt cosy he guessed. It didn’t taste like panic or the boys locker room or strawberries. But Lydia Martin had sprinted from him. Lydia Martin hadn’t seen him in months. Lydia Martin hated him. So he melted into Malia for the moment and locked the idea of Lydia in the back of his head.

 

 --

 

Lydia Martin watched people file in the main entrance to the school. She allowed the chatter to swell around her, finally able to pick out bits of conversation here and there. But she wasn’t fully focused on the gossip, or the complaining, or the whispers about how odd she’d become. Stiles Stilinski had not made his usual jittery way through the doors. She spun on her heel, about to head to her first class when a laugh tinkled through her ears like small silver bells. Before she knew what she was doing her mouth was saying Allison and her whole body was vibrating. Turning immediately, she tried to locate where the sound was coming from.

Whack.

An image smacked her in the face so hard she could almost feel the rawness of the slap on her cheek. Stiles Stilinski stood with his hand in the palm of another girl. That girl. The one who smiled like sunshine but left traces of Peter Hale wherever she went. Malia Tate. Lydia completed her circle and spun again, running towards the emergency exit as fast as her legs would carry her.

 

\--

 

Stiles Stilinski watched Lydia’s eyes flash the colour of her hair and almost evaporate at the sight of him. He almost rushed after her, but the hand in his sung promises of girls he hadn’t broken and so he stayed put.

 

\--

 

Lydia Martin’s heart sunk into a cage made of ribs and bone and sorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I just wanna say thanks so much for reading this! This next chapter is a little off in terms of how I have written the others but I wanted to get Isaac's perspective down as something a little lighter than Lydia's or Stiles'. Big confrontation coming up next chapter, so look forward to that!

Lydia Martin was not the sort of person you could break easily. At twelve years of age her mother had handed her a box with such reverence that Lydia could have sworn it contained the keys to the world. But instead of a key, her mother had given her (in Lydia’s opinion) a much greater gift. Armour. Blues and pinks, soft browns and dark greys, berry and gold. Lydia’s first make up kit was filled to the brim with bullet proof vests of every hue and tone you could imagine.

Instead of dwelling on the people at school who made fun of her abilities, Lydia spent hours matching her skin tone to the perfect blush. Eventually she crafted an image that hid herself so well that not even the boy who spent hours by her side could tell who she was. Not that Jackson had ever been particularly interested in her personality anyway. Theirs was more of an intangible tie. Two people building walls around themselves so high and fast neither had ever been able to tell where one began and the other ended. In the days after Allison went, Lydia had spent hours in front of the mirror crafting the perfect mask. Extra concealer for nightmares of blades. Water proof mascara to hide bouts of sobs in supply closets. Gallons of blush to put the life back into her face.

So on this day, after at least eight hours of barely nightmare filled sleep (a hallway, a lifeless body, a scream), Lydia could not believe that today was the day the cracks in her mask finally broke into pieces. Nothing could hide the look of utter inconsolable grief on her face. She’d heard the key note she’d been searching for. Allison’s laugh had pattered its way through her ears and she’d run in the opposite direction because of a boy. (That boy, the one she’d clung to, he smelt like ginger and pine wood). Staring at a girl she didn’t know anymore, she resigned herself to a new set of ingredients for one perfect Lydia Martin. She wouldn’t lose focus again. She sighed deeply, picked up her foundation and painted herself a suit of iron. Her thoughts didn’t linger on the way his hand had looked in someone else’s, wrong and twisted like the knife wrenched in her side had been given another spin. Not once.

 

\--

 

Lydia Martin spent the next month strolling the halls of Beacon Hills High not seeing or hearing anything but the whispers of people long erased from time.

_(what do you mean- oh god help me- it never stops- scream- death- no)_

She didn’t see Kira slip back into town after an extended ‘holiday’ (Kitsune lessons (avoiding Scott’s grief for someone else)) in Japan. She didn’t notice Chris Argent packing his things in their weekly visits. Didn’t register the visa applications lying on Isaac’s desk. Didn’t sneak peeks at a couple stealing kisses and smiles in the corners of her eyes. But what she wasn’t seeing wasn’t what bothered her.

It was what she wasn’t hearing. Lydia had listened to so many desperate pleas for help in the garbled chorus of whispers that she could predict every help me before it fluttered through one ear and out the other. She was a powerless conductor, swaying in time to the music with no control over the orchestra. No matter how many times she looked, expectant and poised, the tone she wanted never came. Allison may have been here.

She was gone now.

Out of options, she was going to have to go back there. The one place she couldn’t stomach searching before, not even in her most desperate hours (spent laying in the back of her closet, one jacket clasped to her chest, one red hoodie draped over her shoulders, two rivers running free from her forest green irises). The very idea of it snaked a shiver so freezing down her spine Lydia didn’t feel an ounce of warmth for the rest of the day. She would have to take someone with her.

 

\--

 

Isaac Lahey swept his eyes over the petite girl slumped in the seat next to him. There were many things he initially hadn’t liked about Lydia Martin. She was cocky, selfish and far too like himself for him to actually take her seriously. The things he didn’t like about her these days were a far cry from petty high school differences. He didn’t like how thin she was. He didn’t like the hollowed out look in her eyes. He didn’t like the blank rage that flickered on her face whenever Stilinski reared his palid face with Peter Hale’s cub in tow. Most of all, he didn’t like the fact that she was evidently not listening to him as he carefully set out why coming to Eichen House in the dead of night was one of the worst ideas she’s ever had (she’d had a few, making him watch The Notebook until they couldn’t cry anymore being at the very top “ _But Isaac there has to be a finite amount of sadness we can feel, it’s only logical_ ”. God he never should have let her drink that wine before noon).

After finishing his speel and realising it’s little to no impact, he pulled on his scarf and stepped out of the car. The chill from his feet up was no coincidence. The only emotions left here were the ones that set ice in your bones like the first day of December. His eyes set on Lydia as she got out of the car and set herself to work. He had to admit, it was sort of entrancing to watch her feel out a space by listening. Lydia waltzed around the courtyard, occasionally tapping here and there. Her tiny frame came to rest at the patch of concrete where Allison Argent’s last breath would echo in his empty arms forever (it hadn’t been his place to hold her, but he couldn’t pretend it hadn’t stung forever). He knew the answer before she turned to face him, her heart beating at its usual pace. He hadn’t worked out in his head whether it was creepy or not that he could memorize heartbeats now (Lydia’s was light and quick, Scott’s strong and loud and weirdly warm).

 _Nothing_ , she whispered. _Isaac_ , she started her eyes finally meeting his, _We’re out of options_. He took a deep breath and began the speech he’d been spinning like a loom in his brain for the past few weeks. _Lydia, look I know this isn’t what you want to hear right now, but maybe you can’t find her because she isn’t missing. She’s just gone._ The glaze over her eyes already told him she hadn’t heard him at all. _Lyds. Look at me._ He crossed the space between them and ignored the shards of glass that stabbed every inch of his skin as he stood on that forsaken concrete. _I’m not going to be here much longer._

 _What?_ At least that had registered on her scale. _Mr Arge- …Chris. Chris and I are heading to France. It’s not good for him to be here and it’s not really good for me too. This place is full of death. And almost death once or twice in my case._ Something registered across her face at that. He hoped it was her appreciating his humour (he was wrong).

After a few minutes pause her face twitched into what used to be a smile. _Well, we’re going to need punch._

_What?_

_Punch,_ she repeated, _for your going away party. You’re not mad at me for leaving?_ She took his hand and turned it over in her two small ones. _You’re right, the only thing left here is death. And almost death._

\--

Lydia Martin didn’t waste any time sprinting to her room and turning on her laptop. She piled her hair on top of her head and ignored her stomach’s fifth attempt at gnawing that day. Not now. Her lap top kicked into gear and she typed it in. She would need to talk to Deaton, plans would need to be made, but this was it. This was her shot.

Bardo. The place between life and death. That was the very definition of Lydia herself. If she could get there, if she could make it somehow.. She retreated to her bed and let the electrifying dizziness of exhaustion and adrenaline pump through her veins like lava scorching a path on the mountain.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Thanks again for reading this! This felt a lot more intense when I wrote it and now I don't like it as much but anyway I hope you guys do! Also, I'm putting out a little trigger warning for the next chapter for suicide (no one is doing it but it's a bit triggering even from a context viewpoint). I've written it so that you can get an idea of what happens without really having to read the next chapter.

Stiles Stilinski didn’t think twice before chugging the dark brown liquid swimming in the cup Scott had passed him upon stepping into the Martin’s house. Scott was slowly slipping into a warm buzz with a little wolfs bane chucked in his drink. It was something Stiles and Lydia had come up with when they were still on speaking terms. He tried to push the thought further into the back of his mind. The last thing he needed tonight was to be thinking about what she looked like in his room, the way she beamed iridescently when she figured something out.

He told himself things with Malia had been great. Really great. Being with her was comfortable and comforting. The feeling of complete ease like when you’re on your own, only with someone else’s skin pressed lightly against yours (there was a note missing from their harmony, he couldn’t hear it no matter how loud he sung).

Comfortable was a far cry from how he felt now, drifting from room to room among a sea of faces he didn’t recognize. He knew he shouldn’t have come. He and Isaac had never been especially close. The look the tall wolf had shot him when he walked in told him that he was not at all welcome. Still, Malia was busy with a tutoring lesson and Scott had mentioned something about pack loyalty, so he’d dragged himself to the party on the provision that he was allowed to leave after 30 minutes. Stepping into her house alone had set off a chain of memories like a firecracker. Memories he shouldn’t be thinking about with a girlfriend. Resignedly, he checked the time and counted the seconds. After Lydia avoiding him for months on end, he wasn’t exactly keen to see her have to run from him in her own house.

 _Man I shouldn’t be here_ , he repeated to Scott for the umpteenth time. _She wouldn’t want me here anyway_. His second drink spilled down his throat and he savoured the burn while Scott dabbled in umms and ahhs about pack and friendship. _She blames me for Allison and Aiden,_ he muttered into his drink.

 _Bullshit. She doesn’t blame you_. Stiles jumped at the sight of Isaac suddenly by his side. He nearly dropped his third (or was it fourth?) drink. Isaac’s patience already seemed at an end. He cut straight to the point.

_You should talk to her, she’s out the back._

Stiles would have usually ignored anything that ponce had to say, but the weight in his words and the gentle cloud resting over his decision making process grabbed his shoes and dragged him toward the back of the house. If she didn’t blame him, then why the hell had she been avoiding him. _Malia Malia Mailia_ the voice in his head whispered but he barely heard it. He didn’t dare to dream like that anymore.

Isaac Lahey watched Stilinski trudge away with a little too much drag to his feet to be completely sober. Since deciding to leave Beacon Hills in the dust, Isaac had already felt a million miles away. This was his last string to cut.

 _Why did you do that man? You know she doesn’t wanna see him._ Isaac smirked back at Scott.

_Not even you believe that Scott._

Scott laughed into his cup but the question lingered in the air.

 _I’m going to be gone soon. She needs people. It’s what Alli- what she would have wanted. For her not to be alone. You either_ , he smiled and nodded over to Kira standing in the corner. Isaac expected the Alpha’s smile to spark into the sort of electric joy that Kira brought out of him, but instead bittersweet flitted across his features.

 _I’m really going to miss you Isaac_. For the first time since deciding to go, Isaac felt a tiny tug of homesickness. He knew he wouldn’t miss Beacon Hills much at all, but he’d miss home. That feeling he got just being around the Mcalls. That sense of safety and belonging. It was a tough fear to swallow. But Chris had been so good to him and they needed each other now. He had to build a new family. He turned and clapped the shorter boy on the shoulder.

_I’m going to miss you too Scott._

 

 

\--

 

Lydia Martin let the vodka sail down her throat in long large gulps. As the alcohol sped through her veins she swirled around and let her skirt twist and twirl with arms out. Drinking wasn’t something she did often (Her mother’s words rang in her ears, _We don’t drink to feel better, we drink to feel even better_ ), but it was such a lovely night that she couldn’t help drowning her sorrows a little. The party had only taken a few weeks to plan, and was going off without a hitch.

Even the dampening of her senses couldn’t prevent her from hearing the tiniest creak of a door behind her. She spun again, stumbling a little before catching herself on the pools edge. The small ripple the flush of her skirt created on the water’s surface sent the reflected lights dancing. The beauty of it distracted her for just moment. When she finally stood straight she wasn’t ready for it. Stiles Sitlinski stared back at her, the image of herself really smiling for once reflected in his eyes. Lydia wished she could set that moment in his amber irises and stay there forever.

The spell shattered the moment he began speaking.

 _Hi,_ he drawled. Relief flushed over her. She wasn’t the only one a little too out of control for this conversation.

 _Hey_ , Lydia breathed back. His smiled dropped.

_You look tired._

Ouch. That stung like a slap.  Lydia had spent extra time ensuring she looked like her old self that night. It had been inevitable though. Their conversations were always filled with little barbs. The first one in a long time was always going to be a boxing match. She bit back. _First conversation in months you want to tell me how awful I look?_

His shoulders jerked like he’d been pushed. _You look beautiful, I’m sorry. I meant to ask how are you?_

As nice as it was to hear, the damage was already done. Anger swirled in her stomach. Duck and jab. _You can’t say things like that to me._ Her tone was a little sharper than necessary.

 _Why cause it’s always so obvious how you’re doing?_ The sarcasm felt familiar and painful at once.

 _No not that. Compliments. You have a girlfriend now remember? Tall and Haleish if I recall?_ She wanted to trap the words mid-air and pull them back into her mouth. She hadn’t meant to go there so quickly. From the look on his face, it was obvious that they’d reached him loud and clear. Jab to the left.

 _I’m not sure telling you that you don’t look awful counts as a compliment. And thanks, I hadn’t forgotten._ That once glanced off her and she punched back.

_You’ve never done this before I’m not sure you know the etiquette._

_Wow and getting advice from the girlfriend of the year will really help. How is Jackson?_ Upper cut to the left cheek. Rage swam in front of her eyes. The alcohol whispered sweet maliciousness in her ears and she didn’t hear his apology. Neither of them spoke for a moment and the thunder in her almost quelled. Something felt off. He’d seemed upset but there wasn’t a trace of anger.

 

 _You’re angry with me_ she said bewilderedly. It was more a statement than a question. A repetition to herself of what she believed to be true.

What makes you say that?

 _You know why_ she hummed in her brain, but there was no point in bringing up the past few months now. She’d had reasons for not speaking to him hadn’t she? He was to blame in this too. Their conversation broke into rapid fire of hits and misses.

_Nothing. How have you been?_

_Better. Not great but better. You?_

_Better_. Lie.

_Scott and Isaac beg to differ_

_Scott and Isaac don’t know me as well as they might like to think_

_Well I do._

_Not anymore._

_Yeah well, one of us hasn’t been running out of the halls whenever they see me._ Maybe he _was_ angry at her. Everything she’d felt in his absence came bubbling to her throat. She was angry with him too.

 _That’s not about you._ She spat back.

_Is it about her?_

_She seems nice, it’s nothing to do with her._ Lie.

 _Oh yeah. Im sure. Nothing at all._ Drip, drip, drip goes the sarcasm. 

_Don’t even start with me Stilinski._

_Start with what?_

_This, us._ She hadn't meant to say that. Shit she hadn’t meant to say that.

 _What us? Im dating Malia._ Blow to the right side.

 _I know that, I’ve seen you take her for walks down the halls._ Low blow to the kidneys.

 _Oh for- this is about her, of course it is. What did you expect Lydia? I’m sorry if for just a second I allowed myself a moment of happiness with someone who could actually smile at me without having to remind themselves how completely far out of their league I am!_   Side swipe to the head. How could he even think that.

 _Do not pretend for one second that you didn’t know how I felt about you. Where our friendship was going. You knew how I felt about you, how much we’d grown over the past year, and you threw it away for a girl who I have to see every day and be reminded of a man who violated my mind and ruined my life._ Uppercut to the jaw. He was up against the ropes.

 

\--

 

Stiles Stilinski stared back at Lydia, panting a little. He hadn’t meant for it to go like this. They shouldn’t be fighting. He thought she had been avoiding him because of Allison. Finding out she was jealous was both a relief and annoying. But comparing Malia to Peter was a step too far. He launched back at her.

 _She is nothing like him._ The alcohol egged him on, finally letting go of every dark thought that had plagued. _And oh please, let’s talk about our developing relationship. You weren’t there okay? You weren’t there. And how, after years of thinking you hated me, can you blame me for believing that it would all go away?_

 _Because I thought you knew me better than that!_ She clenched her fists and took a step closer.

 _YOU. WEREN’T. THERE._ His shoulders shook like earthquakes. _You left me, alone, to deal with the fact that I watched myself hurt people. You of all people should have known how much I needed you._ He nudged himself forward an increment. It felt like a magnet tugging him.

 _I couldn’t be there!_ Her heels inched her closer, distress streaming off her.

 _Why not? Give me one good reason because honestly I can’t fathom a reason you shouldn’t be a part of my life at any given time._ He stepped towards her, the smell of Vodka whacking him in the face. She was drunk too. They should stop. He closed the gap between them, eyes boring into hers. His resolve flickered at her silence. He began again a little more timidly.

_Well?_

 

\--

 

Lydia Martin fought the urge to collapse into him. Ginger and pinewood and a pair of warm arms called to her as his question hung, rapidly drying in the air. She had nothing left to give. No anger, just pain. She swallowed her hunger for him and let the truth spill from her lips. The stupid, weak truth. She wasn’t strong enough.

_I felt them die. I felt that sword tear her out of our lives like it was going through me. Can you even imagine that? Do you have any idea how lonely I’ve been? You were recovering, and I knew that I couldn’t be strong for you. I pushed and pushed and getting us past the point of that thing dead was all I could do. I realised after that first night that it wasn’t going to work. I can’t be around you without wanting to be with you, be comforted by you. It’s constant. I couldn’t be any semblance of myself while dealing with both their deaths and trying to help you. I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t put us both back together and you couldn’t have done it either. We needed time Stiles. We both needed time and you didn’t give us enough._

Stiles looked at her with an expression of complete shock. It took every ounce of strength she had left to extract herself from the bubble of sadness and want they stood in.  

She stormed out the house, making it just out the door before her body was wracked with sobs. Her knees went beneath her and she dropped like a ragdoll. Isaac caught her at the last second. They sat on the green lawn while the world turned around them until Lydia ceased crumbling and everything became quiet.

 

\--

 

Malia Tate stood in the shadows of a large house and watched the boy she loved spill salt for someone who wasn’t her.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!  
> TRIGGER WARNING FOR SUICIDE, PILLS ETC.  
> I don't even know where I'm going with this fic anymore, it's so depressing to write! I promise things will get better from here on out for everyone. Thanks again for reading!

Lydia Martin stood in shock while the travelator pulled her body further from Isaac and Chris Argent. She didn’t think about the abandonment tattooed on Scott’s face when Isaac boarded the plane, nor the salty scent of the tears streaking silently down Ms McCall’s face, or even the way everything safe and secure left in her had bundled itself in Isaac’s arms and run a million miles away.

Instead, her arms felt the ghostly linger of Mr Argent’s own. The words they hadn’t said were etched in tiny writing on her skin, snaking into ears no matter how hard she tried to block them out. In that last moment they’d grasped at each other a little too tightly, each trying to convey a silent comfort they couldn't articulate out loud. _It wasn't your fault_.

When they’d finally stepped back, she’d seen her own thoughts echoed in the set of his face. Neither had believed the other. _Of course it was._

_\--_

 

Lydia Martin stared incredulously as all the garbage pouring from Deaton’s mouth swelled together and formed one resounding word. _No_. They had been planning this for two weeks, how could he back out now? She folded her hands nervously around the scarf Isaac had left with her and rationalised the decision in her brain. No one else had come near her since the airport and she’d thrown her phone into a drawer where she wouldn’t see it. (33 missed calls- Isaac. 12 missed calls- Scott. 7 missed calls- Kira. 1 missed call- Stilinski). This was a good thing. Her resolve was a muscle to be flexed and there was no one standing in her way now. No one except Deaton.

_It’s just not safe Lydia. I’ve rethought it and you’re not a werewolf. You won’t heal fast enough._

The tightly wound strands of patience strung between her temples were snapping one by one and her headache was growing.

 _That’s exactly why we chose the poison. One antidote and it’s over,_  she countered.They’d spent a few macabre hours plotting out which way was best to induce almost death (nothing that left a mark, ice bath was too risky with no tether, pills too easy to go wrong).

 _I just can’t guarantee you’ll come back, or that you'll even make it to Bardo. Allison may not even be there Lydia_ (in one ear, out the other). _I’ve never dealt with a Banshee in this territory before Lydia._

Her eyes tightened ever so slightly. She considered arguing with him but she knew if she seemed too eager he’d tell Scott. The last thing she needed right now was a lecture from the big bad wolf. She shifted her weight and placed her expression somewhere between understanding and resign (manipulating those around her had never been an issue, focus focus focus).

_Well, we tried. Thanks for everything Deaton._

He offered her a sympathetic smile on a silver platter in place of a best friend. A sweet honey flavoured smile dripped widely across her face in return. Deaton didn’t notice the honey ensnaring a bottle of tranquilizers from the shelf and sticking in Lydia’s purse as she left.

 

\--

 

Lydia Martin sat down on her bed and set her alarm. The extensive research she’d done had allowed her to set out the perfect plan. She would take five in five minute intervals until the bottle was gone. That would allow her to get everything ready and test out how her body reacted to large doses of tranquilizer (you never know when you might need to know these things).

Five went down the hatch. Five minutes later she dressed herself in her worst clothes and brushed her teeth.

Five more. She read through the overdose procedure one more time and tacked it to the side of the bath.

Another five went swimming in her stomach. Her bedroom was starting to swirl and her wardrobe was melting into the floor.

The last five went down with a fight. She tried to press send on her phone but her hand slipped and before she knew it she was laying in the tub, her phone scattered from her _._ _  
_

Her head lulled back and her eyes sank shut and her mind quieted and her breath slowed.

 

\--

 

Lydia Martin’s phone lay cracked on her bathroom floor. The distorted screen read one unsent text to Scott McCall.

_I need your help in exactly 20 minutes. Call Deaton on the way over, he’ll explain everything._

 

\--

 

Malia Tate sat and watched the pale boy curled around her middle as he inhaled sorrows and exhaled misery. He never looked peaceful while he slept, anguish lining his face in a way that seemed all too mature and naïve at once. She bit back the surge of emotion that vaulted up her throat as he clutched tighter to her and whispered another girls name like a prayer. His precious perfect Lydia. 

Malia watched the way Stiles’ eyes followed her like a moth to a flame. It wasn’t her place to comment on it of course, she had known his feelings for _her_ when she’d jumped off the relationship cliff with him. Lydia’s strength was admirable and she knew why Stiles adored her so. But the hair, the dress, the heels. She was carrying a card board cut out in front of her as a distraction. One afternoon, after watching Lydia stomp down the halls with such determination in her eyes she could have burst into flames, Malia had lent on Kira’s locker and made her one and only comment on the matter. _The only thing she’s wearing is a thick veil of grief, clasped so tight to every inch of her skin there’s not a movement she makes that doesn’t send a wave of sorrow with it_. _It’s a wonder she doesn’t choke on it._

Stiles startled awake the second his phone blared. He lazy disentangled one arm from around her to reach his phone. The second he read the text he jumped away from her entirely.

 

\--

 

Meredith heard the voices pick up in pitch. The symphony climaxed in the spaces between her ears. She clutched at the phone Scott had slipped her upon her re-entry to Eichen House and prayed her message reached him fast enough.

Lydia Martin was dying.

 

\--

 

Malia Tate spent a split second memorizing the way the warmth of his body drained from hers as he sprung away from her. She wouldn’t be able to hold herself to him this tightly for much longer.

 

\--

 

Stiles Stilinski pulled on his shoes hastily and swallowed his panic. Malia looked back at him expectantly. This wasn’t something he wanted to put her through.

_Lydia’s in trouble. We have to go._

Her understanding yet melancholy nod shredded him. The long list of grievances he’d caused Malia Tate played on a loop in his brain as they raced to the Jeep. Stiles sat in the passengers seat idly while Malia doubled the speed limit and stroked smoothing circles on his palm. He couldn’t help it when the manic worry in his chest yanked his mind from Malia entirely (is she okay, is she okay, Lydia what have you done). The girl made of wicked sunshine and an empty boy sped along a deserted road. 

 

_\--_

 

Lydia Martin opened her eyes slowly. Her pupils shrunk rapidly as the blinding white lights pierced every ounce of sight she had. As her vision began to adjust, familiarity crept unsettlingly down her spine. She’d been here before, in Stiles' mind. A quick glance to her left confirmed her suspicions. The nematon stump radiated beside her.Lydia whirled around. Where was she? She wasn't supposed to be here. Panic sunk its claws into her toes and began its ascent. Her heart clutched, spluttered, wrenched, stopped.

Melodic laughter signalled from behind. Lydia spun and watched as the white edges of the room merged into cobbled streets.

Wide eyed and smiling, Allison Argent trailed her fingers along a fence as she strolled Parisian streets not 200 metres from where Lydia stood.

Her feet were moving before her brain told them to. She’d done it. She’d found her (she could bring her back). _Allison._ Lydia breathed the girls name over and over. Allison spun on her heel and gave one, terrified cry before Lydia’s world fell away and the archer’s tune spun in Lydia’s ears.

_Not yet Lydia. No._

 

_\--_

 

Lydia Martin’s fingers clutched at Allison’s shoulders but her hand came up empty. The white void and Paris had been  sucked out from underneath her. Allison was gone. Lydia was staring at the dark grey tiling of her bathtub. Her throat ached like it did after a scream and the smell of vomit hit her in the face so hard she retched.

A pair of warm hands were holding her steady, water gushing over her body in a steady stream. The pills she had swallowed circled the drain and dropped in one by one.The clunk of each one falling down the drain punctuated the loneliness stabbing it's way through her bones.An eternity and a second later she finally regained enough agency over her body to twist slightly and stare up into the faces of Stiles, Malia and Melissa. They watched on in shock as Scott's arms wrapped tighter around her. Silence hung so poignantly in the air that when she broke it you could almost hear it smash to the floor. Her words came out hollow and bitter and angry. 

_ What have you done?   _

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything is so angsty and everyone is crying why have I done this. Hope you guys like it!

Lydia Martin sat on her couch wrapped so tightly in several blankets she could barely feel let alone see her hands (hands that should be grasping on to Allison’s shoulder, hands that should be wrapped around the brown headed girl, hands that wouldn’t have let go). A thin leg twitched beside her.

 _Stiles?_ She croaked.

She could hear inconsolable sobbing filled complete and utter grief. The howling was jarring her out of her attempts to recall every detail about what she had just witnessed. Any other time she would have tried to comfort him. She couldn’t stand it when he cried. It made her want to take the world and rearrange all its parts until he didn’t have a reason anymore. With a considerable amount of effort she turned to look at him. Confusion boiled unfamiliar in her lungs. He was crying, but silently, angrily. The tears that were flowing did little to cover the desperate and cold rage in his eyes.

Her lungs expanded and contracted suddenly, painfully, and with a dawning of horror she felt the next sob course from her mouth louder than her screams. She was the one sobbing (she was the broken one). He looked away from her, his hands twitching helplessly in his lap.

Without an answer she returned to her numbed state, trying to ignore the marching ache in her throat (her spine, her cheeks, her hands oh god her hands). A girl of light dark pulled the blankets aside and placed a warm cup of tea in her hands. Lydia didn’t notice Malia’s attempt at niceties. The cup shattered to the floor as she stared at her empty, so empty, hands. Stiles sat unmoving beside her, the moment set in a thick plaster of anger and fear.

Finally, Scott crossed the room and grasped her hands tight. His touch burned its way through her nervous system. He used to be so warm. Now he was the tired burning man. She should try to explain. The minutes dragged on in silence. _I didn’t want to die, I wanted to see Allison_. The notes never sprung from her throat. Instead she listened carefully to the only sign that Melissa was standing in her kitchen. Lydia could hear the drips piling on the floor from Scott’s wet clothes, and carefully distinguished them from Melissa’s tears hitting tile (one was plip, the other a plop).

Mercifully, Deaton breezed calmly through the door. With nothing but a stern glance he rallied them and explained the situation. Lydia Martin didn’t want to die, Lydia Martin wanted to see Allison. Lydia Martin was so smart that she was stupid stupid stupid.

 

\--

 

Stiles’ anger sat stubbornly in his chest as Deaton and Melissa argued over the finer points of the pile of fragments that was a girl lying on the couch ten feet away. Deaton had tried to explain Lydia’s intentions 8 times since he’d walked through the door an hour ago. Melissa had stood stony faced, clearly not buying it.

_I couldn't give less of a shit about your supernatural whatever. I am treating this as a suicide attempt._

Finality broke on Deaton’s face. He couldn’t blame Deaton for not believing it either. Malia absentmindedly traced her finger along his shoulder blade but the comforting feeling was reeled further away from him the more she tried. At least Lydia had stopped sobbing. Her face was set entirely of stone. Stiles had seen her without her make up on before. He’d never seen her this bare. Ache stung the backs of his eyes.

Half an hour later and they’d agreed on a course of action. Melissa would grab supplies from the hospital, if anyone knew the drugs came from Deaton he could be held liable. On that line of reasoning, Lydia’s mother wasn’t to be told either. Malia had piped up at that, _She left and went on holiday, she doesn’t deserve to be told_. He’d felt a small jab of pride at that. He knew how difficult it would be for her to be here, let alone defend Lydia. Someone would have to stay with Lydia at all times, and they’d take shifts until Morrell had a chance to properly determine how much of a threat Lydia was to herself.

With Scott on first watch, Stiles took Malia’s hand and returned to the jeep. His muscle memory sung climb into the jeep and put as much distance between here and everything as he could. Instead his eyes sat transfixed on the pale blue door. With a raging certainty, his foot flew into the tire. Then a fist into the door. His limbs began to fly as a wail leapt from his stomach. Malia dragged him away before he could do any real damage (a few dents and bruises to the jeep and himself). Scott bolted out the front door and grabbed him by the shoulders the way he used to after Stiles’ mum became flowers in spring and that one star off to the right of his window.

 _Stiles, go home. I’ve got her_. Stiles couldn’t help but see Scott’s eyes flick to Malia’s terrified face. He tried to breathe through his nose but Lydia’s scent was caked around him. Tears brimmed and bubbled over his eyes like a poorly pumped fountain.

_Why would she try to leave me?_

They bundled him into the car and Malia drove twice the limit back to the Stilinski’s.

 

\--

 

Malia Tate handed a fragmented Stiles back to the Sheriff. She ignored the cold thick worry enveloping the base of her spine. Stiles' eyes locked with hers for just a moment before she took off into the expansive green escape held in the tall trees behind her. There was compassion and worry and affection in each of the honey rings set in the darker chocolate shade. The only thing missing was love.

 

\--

 

Lydia Martin woke up in the arms Allison Argent perished in. Scott’s head was tipped back off the side of the couch, mouth wide and innocent. He looked about seven years old. Too young to have loved and literally lost. He woke with a snort and start when she shifted slightly. Panic nested where innocence had reigned only seconds before.

I’m fine, we’re fine. Her voice sounded foreign and hoarse. He smiled sadly and checked his watch. Three thirty AM blared at them and as if the world had received a signal everything grew suddenly darker.

Lyds, can I ask you one more thing? Once her sobs has subsided and she’d managed to relay most of what she’d seen to Scott. There was no point in keeping it from him, he had such an openness about him that is would have cause unnecessary difficulties.

If you’d reached her, woul-would you? Have, you know? Come back?

Everything she had to live for lay unsaid in the synapses of her brain as she whispered.

A tender burning kiss on the top of her head sparked her whole body into a feeling of total safety.

Thanks for being honest.

She smiled and settled back into him, her mind slowly beginning to subside. She couldn’t risk it again, she couldn’t go back. Allison hadn’t been pleased to see her, because of what that meant. Lydia dead. If she gave herself the chance again, she wouldn’t make it back. The echoes of watching Allison die had sunk into air the moment she’d opened her eyes in that tub. She wouldn’t do that to them again.

You want to know something? Scott sighed so quietly that Lydia was sure she was the only person in the world who could have heard him.

I wouldn’t have either.

Scott McCall and Lydia Martin sat in a warm safe space surrounded by darkness and allowed themselves one final all-consuming moment of grief. Allison was dead. That didn’t mean they were too.

 

\--

 

Stiles Stilinski stood at his locker two millenium (days) after _it_ happened. Each second ticked by like a year. Today was his turn to sit with her. To try and put the Lydia doll back together. He didn't like to think of her like that, but the image of Scott pulling her into the bath like she was made of straw and thread hadn't stopped looping in front of his eyes. She was right of course. If this had happened a few months earlier he would have crumbled completely. They'd needed time apart.

Time Apart walked measuredly towards him.  

 _Hi_ Malia smiled. 

 _Hi._ Her eyes were wrong. There was something gone. 

 _I would say this is a break up speech but truth be told I think we were over weeks ago._ Peace. It wasn't something missing but gained. She looked peaceful. 

_You'll never love me like that. I know you're angry with her and god help me I can't believe I'm helping you get with someone else, but you have to forgive her._

Words failed him. It was true. 

 _I'm sorry._ It was all he could muster. She smiled her smile of sunshine, the rays nearly blinding. 

_It's okay. I understand. Just, give me some time okay? I seem calm now but I probably won't be for a while._

Malia sauntered to the end of the hall, taking a tiny piece of him with her. She pulled the doors open and for one perfect moment was bathed in light. Regret pooled in his veins and soaked every inch of his being while she swam in the pinks and oranges of the sky. Every part of him twitched except his heart. It beat steadily as he turned and let the red string tied around it tug him forward to Lydia.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Just a quick update, I want to think a little about where this is going before anything else happens so this is mostly just a little bit of calm before the storm. Enjoy!

Lydia Martin has begun measuring time in people. Morell is long and painful mornings, and then it feels like a half hour of Melissa before she’s whisked off to a shift. Danny is mid-afternoon sunshine. Isaac calls at twilight and his voice calms her till the light has pattered out of the day. Night is Scott, then Kira (or the other way around, one always follows the other).

Once or twice every other day there’s an hour or two of Stiles. They sit on opposite sides of the room and she watches him process how loudly he can breathe without her noticing. The first time he’d come it had been different. He’d held her tightly for a moment that stretched like elastic around her thoughts for the next week. He’d let go eventually and they stayed pressed together on her bed. She’d stared at his lips and no matter how much she wanted to make a home there they would taste like battery acid. _My name is Lydia Martin and I do not kiss other people’s boyfriends._

Now when he came he didn’t touch her. His sad eyes said you’re a pile of autumn leaves and one ill movement could blow you away. Lydia wanted to tell him about how everything had been getting better. It hadn’t been easy but she was trying. She wanted to tell him about how Kira liked to talk and Lydia liked to listen to her. She wanted to tell him that with Morrell she didn’t have to listen, just talk and at first it was hard and the words rubbed like sandpaper in her throat but now she could do it. Allison wasn’t smoke in her heart but a real presence in her life again. A lost one but one none the less.

She wanted a lot of things. Want didn’t make the boy sit any closer. A decision had to be made.

 

\--

 

Stiles Stilinski was not in habit of noticing when something was healing. His father had become volcanic ash when his mother died. Everything had been so so terrible for so so long, he didn’t see his father heal into strong and resilient stone. When Gerard had left long red streaks down his cheek, he didn’t register his skin stitching itself back together again until one day the boy in the mirror had a clean face. Scott was horribly broken and forever lost until one day Scott smiled at him and Stiles saw where all the glass had been plucked out of his heart by a pair of nimble kitsune fingers (there was still some scarring but there always would be). He was so used to darkness that he didn’t notice light until it was bright as day.

In a similar manner, Stiles failed to see Lydia Martin heal. The first time he’d gone to see her, relief that she was simply there had clouded him. A million mumbles spilt from her lips and he plucked out the ums and ahs till he had a long twine of everything but an apology. He held her tight and decided that conversations about Malia and how nicely Lydia’s hand would feel in his forever could wait. He missed out on the next step, where she started studying and drawing pictures of Allison and making friends and living. So one afternoon (even though Scott said he needn’t go) he found himself hit like a truck by a sight he hadn’t thought he’d see again.

His eyes had been studying a beam of sunlight that peeked out from behind the cloud, lazy trailing upwards until he was staring her in the face. His brain made flash like link and a long ago lacrosse game ducked through his eyes.

 _So when are you going to tell me about You and Malia?_ That caught him off guard even further and his brain took a stumble on the edge of the cliff.

 _There isn’t much to tell really._ He darted his eyes away and back to her fast enough to categorise the fall her face took.

 _Well I mean there is I guess but we uh, it didn’t work out. I- it was um_ \- She cut him off with a step forward. That was breaking a boundary.

 _Kira mentioned something about that. I wanted to say something earlier but I thought you might need some time._ She sounded like she used to, every word perfectly assembled and rolling off the production line to his ears.

 _Yeah I wanted to do the same with you. Not that you needed it because of that I meant more with you know-_ He was fumbling god please stop fumbling. _You said we needed time._ It was all he could say. She smiled at him, really and properly and he couldn’t stop his muscles from tugging to mirror hers. She glittered like soaring violins and popping champagne.

Stiles attempted to gather his thoughts into something coherent to say but the sight of her in that moment smashed every thought that tried to form. Lydia stepped towards him again, taking his hand and placing it just under her clavicles. He heart thrummed like a hummingbird beneath his hand.

 _I don’t know how to explain how I feel,_ she started shakily, _but this is what my heart does when you’re around and I like it_. Her heart continued to pound, his skipped a beat. His phone buzzed in his pocket before he had a chance to answer. He cursed under his breath as Scott quickly relayed the situation. The world would not let them lie still. He took her hand and they left to chase things they should be running from.


End file.
